away leaving the gas lighted and the study unlocked?" He turned back and, running, went through the dark church and the lighted study out into the rain.
There was a light still burning in the parsonage, and as he turned into the path he saw that a figure, framed against the light, stood in the upper window. At first he thought, "It's Reverend Castor," and then almost at once, "No . . . it's his wife. She's waiting for him to come home."
He knocked loudly at the door with a kind of desperate haste, for a terrible suspicion had begun to take form. Whatever had happened to Naomi, every moment was precious: it might save her from some terrible act that would wreck all her life and the Reverend Castor's as well. He knocked again, and then tried the door. It was locked, and he heard an acid voice calling out, "I'm coming. I'm coming. For Heaven's sake, don't break down the door!"
The key turned, and he found himself facing a figure in a gray flannel dressing-gown, dimly outlined by the slight flicker of gas. He could barely distinguish the features—thin, white and pinched . . . the features of a woman, the Reverend Castor's wife.
"Who are you . . . coming at this hour of the night to bang on people's doors?" It was a thin, grating voice. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw a face of incredible repulsion. It was a mean face, like that of a malicious witch.
"I'm Philip Downes. I'm trying to find my wife. She didn't come home from choir practice."
A look of evil satisfaction suddenly shadowed the woman's face. "She wasn't the only one that didn't come back. Like as not they're still there, carrying
